


beg june to burn me alive

by splinters



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future Fic, Getafe CF, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 15:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15270657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splinters/pseuds/splinters
Summary: It’s very strange when he stops to think about it for any varying length of time. They have known each other for the best part of twenty years. Twenty years. It seems like an almost incomprehensible span of time, filled with forgettable, inconsequential moments in which nothing seemed to happen, but whose place in his memory are irreplaceable all the same.(or, Álvaro and Pablo end up at Getafe together.)





	beg june to burn me alive

**Author's Note:**

> title and overall inspiration is from etta james by brian fallon.
> 
> i have literally no idea what this is lmao.

The day before Álvaro signs for Getafe, Pablo dislocates his left kneecap.

They’re in Murcia for preseason. Two weeks and one game in, Pablo’s feeling good—well, as good as he can be at his age, the air a whole lot thicker than he remembers it being last year. The sun is blazing brightly above them as they play, and Pablo can’t really raise his head to look up farther than the near post when he’s standing, melting like hot plastic, ready to take a corner.

There’s no one near him when it happens—one of those freak, non-contact injuries that always ends up being the worst. It takes a second or two for the pain to properly kick in, when his eyes drop to his knee and he sees the bone protruding, bulging out beneath his skin. He starts to scream as he throws his head back, and by then there’s people around him, touching his face, trying to keep him still. Their voices are shaky and strained, like they’re trying not to be sick.

He sees it, later, and he can understand why.

Time passes in a blur of dark blue and painkillers, and Pablo’s back in Madrid by the time it finally dawns on him that this might be it for him. There’s no coming back from this, he thinks, woozy, hand reaching clumsily for his oxygen mask. Someone in his peripheral vision gently knocks it away, and he offers no resistance. He’s too old to come back from this. _That’s fine_ is the last thing he thinks before he slips into a deep sleep, the hospital ward quiet around him. _I’ve had a good run_.

He has surgery the next day, and when he wakes up, he’s assured that everything went perfectly. If all goes well, he’ll be back playing in seven months.

Usually, Pablo is polite enough to bite back the sarcastic, “Brilliant,” that slips out of his mouth, but not now. He freezes, horrified, but the doctor only stares at him with a pitying, gentle sadness clouding her eyes. Now it’s him that thinks he’s going to be sick.

Messages of support trickle in from Madrid, Murcia and beyond, though Pablo suspects that more than half are born out of the guilt of morbid fascination. Videos of his injury clutter his timeline when he feels brave enough to check, each one more sensationalist than the last—close up and sped down, the distress on his teammates’ faces bettered only by his own. Clutching his phone tight, he throws an arm over his face, hiding himself in the crook of his elbow and trying to get the picture out of his head.

They’ve just about dissipated into the murky depths of his subconscious when he hears footsteps. He pulls his arm away, and somewhere in amongst the black spots dancing across his vision, Álvaro Morata appears.

Contrary to popular belief, Pablo doesn’t live the entirety of his life in his own head. He does, at times, wander over into the real world. Álvaro being here isn’t a complete surprise; Pablo’s read the news, entertained the gossip, but it’s never seemed to be anything more than that—gossip. Even then, if Álvaro was coming to Getafe, he would tell Pablo. Wouldn’t he?

“Hi,” Álvaro says, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Pablo stares up at him, feeling oddly like the back of his throat is on the verge of collapsing or he’s about to burst into tears. He feels helpless, caught, and if he could run away, he would. Instead, he’s stuck lying there, a horrible falling sensation lurching through his chest.

Álvaro reaches up, runs a hand through his hair. He looks—shy, almost. Nervous. Álvaro hasn’t looked nervous around Pablo in a while, and it sends him hurtling back through too many years to count. Pablo’s arm tenses as he curls his fingers into the bedsheets. Álvaro notices.

“I can leave, if you don’t want visitors,” Álvaro says.

It can’t be that easy, Pablo thinks. Álvaro’s too stubborn for that. He’s certainly never been one to do as Pablo asks.

“No,” he says back. “No—stay.”

Álvaro’s eyes jump between Pablo and the chair by his bedside. It seems an age before he moves, lowering himself down into it, the fabric squeaking beneath him. Pablo watches him bounce his knees up and down until it makes him queasy, turning away sharply.

“You could’ve told me,” Pablo says suddenly.

Álvaro is quiet in contemplation for a moment.

“I was going to,” he says, and Pablo can’t quite tell if he’s lying or not. “It happened so quickly, and then when I saw what had happened to you, I didn’t—” Álvaro falls into another silence. Pablo turns back to look at him. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate the surprise.”

“I don’t,” Pablo says—not because it’s true, but because he’s bitter and angry and Álvaro is as good as anyone to take his feelings out on. At least he knows he doesn’t mean it. Hopefully. “It’s nice to see you.”

Álvaro is out of his seat then, hovering, body half-bent over Pablo’s, and Pablo moves automatically, folding his arms around the back of his neck, clutching on tight. Tucking his head down, the line of Álvaro’s throat is the only thing he can see, eyelashes barely brushing against his skin as he blinks. There is a familiarity to this place, Pablo thinks, turning his face and pressing it further into the curve of Álvaro’s neck.

It’s a place he never should have left.

*

“What’s he even doing at Getafe, anyway?” Sergio asks, then, “I hope he’s here for the money.”

Pablo huffs, staring down at the grip of his crutches.

He’s been back home for two days, and Sergio has been here most of that time, playing nurse. Seemingly his newly found retirement hasn’t brought him much excitement, and Pablo won’t lie; the thought fills him with a strange, looming sense of doom. He’s going to travel when all of this is over, he thinks. From Lebanon to Taiwan and back again. He’s going to see it all.

“As opposed to what?” he asks, trying to walk again.

Sergio leans back on the couch, fingers linked behind his head. His bottom lip protrudes as he shrugs.

“It’s not like before,” Pablo says quickly, finally abandoning the idea and easing himself down onto the couch adjacent. His crutches rattle as he shoves them off to the side, scaring one of his cats, Julieta, out of the room. “Jesus, it’s been—it’s been years, Escu.”

“I can tell.”

Pablo’s lips twitch, but the protestations die at the back of his throat. He knows what Sergio thinks—he knows what Sergio thinks he knows, but it’s not true. He’s got it all wrong. Álvaro isn’t here for _him_ , not in the slightest. He’s here for a new challenge, to be closer to his family back in Madrid. That’s what he tells the press, at least, and this time, Pablo thinks, maybe it’s just better to believe him.

Later, they watch Getafe’s next friendly against Cartagena together. It’s an uneventful, turgid game until about fifty-five minutes in, when Álvaro bundles in a miscued cross and runs to the crumbling dugout of the Cartagonova. From nowhere, he pulls out a t-shirt, “MUCHO ÁNIMO PABLITO” scrawled in faded permanent marker across the front.  

Pablo looks at Sergio, and Sergio looks at Pablo, and neither of them say anything.

*

“You didn’t need to do that,” he tells Álvaro when he gets back to Madrid.

They’re outside a café way south of Getafe—a small, sleepy little place with an awning that cuts a shadow over Pablo. His crutches rest beside him, propped up against the wall, and Álvaro sits across from him, chair pushed back too far away for anything but their ankles to touch. Still, it’s a nice, constant reassurance that he’s still there, even when the sunlight gets in his eyes and everything disappears in a molten flare of white for a moment.

Álvaro takes a sip of his coffee and waves his other hand dismissively.

“It was nothing,” he says.

And it is, logically. Plenty of players get injured. Plenty of players get their names pressed onto a t-shirt before a game, wishing them the best. It’s the idea of Álvaro sitting before the game, writing out the words himself, as uniform as he’s capable, and playing with it in the back of his mind, waiting for an opportunity, that really gets Pablo. It makes him feel—special, which is awesome, because being injured is shit.

“So,” Pablo begins, then stops, thinking. “How was Istanbul?”

“Hot,” Álvaro says. “Very hot.”

For what it’s worth, Pablo isn’t expecting much more. He knows better than that. One of the things that has always defined their friendship is the distance they can place between themselves, accepting what the other has said and walking away instead of trying to force the issue. Sinking back into his chair, he leaves them to coexist in silence for a little longer, sketching the outline of Álvaro’s silhouette to memory as he tilts his head back, boneless in the summer heat.

It’s very strange when he stops to think about it for any varying length of time. They have known each other for the best part of twenty years. Twenty years. It seems like an almost incomprehensible span of time, filled with forgettable, inconsequential moments in which nothing seemed to happen, but whose place in his memory are irreplaceable all the same.

“I’ve got a good feeling about this season,” Álvaro says suddenly.

Pablo pulls a face in mock offence.

“At least that’s one of us,” he says, letting himself wallow in his own misery for a moment.

The legs of Álvaro’s chair scrape the ground as he pulls it forward. Before Pablo can ever register it happening, Álvaro reaches over the table and curls a hand over the knuckles of his hand, pressing down firmly. He makes soft, deliberate eye contact, and Pablo forgets that this might look a bit weird.

“You’ll be back before you know it,” he says.

Pablo is inclined to believe him.

*

By the middle of August, Pablo’s off his crutches—not because he doesn’t need them, just because he’s too incensed by the impracticality they bring to his life to use them anymore.

“I really think you should be using them,” Álvaro says, holding the passenger door open for Pablo as he gets into his car. “Just saying.”

Years ago, he probably would’ve. He would’ve done everything in his recovery and rehabilitation plan to the letter. That was then, and this is now, though, and there’s no future for him to be wary of preserving any longer. Now it’s just all about getting back onto the pitch, kicking a ball and seeing what else he can bleed out of his career while he still has it. Nobody, not even Álvaro, can make him feel bad about that.

They’re going to the gym today. Outside of his work with the physios, Pablo’s allowed to do some upper body work, just so long as he doesn’t push himself too hard, whatever that constitutes. He’s pretty sure they’ve got Álvaro watching his every move, afraid he’ll do something stupid—either that or Álvaro’s just getting a bit soft in his old age, and a touch more sympathetic. Pablo’s not going to pretend he doesn’t enjoy the attention.

“I’m fine,” Pablo grouses.

“Yeah, you look it,” Álvaro says, then shuts the door.

Pablo’s leaning with his head against the window, summer-slick skin cooling against the glass, by the time Álvaro climbs in the driver’s side. Pablo feels his eyes on him, burning holes into the side of his face, but he doesn’t dare look around.

In fact, he only moves when he feels the window buzz as it lowers, scaring the life out of him. Heart thundering in his ears, he whips around to glare at Álvaro, who stares back, mischievous grin plastered smugly across his face. 

“Asshole,” Pablo mutters, but he’s smiling too.

*

Predictably, the season starts with a loss.

Actually, it starts with three, and a draw, when they just about manage to shutout newly promoted Mallorca. Pablo watches the frustration mount in Álvaro’s every movement from afar, sitting up in the stands, helpless. It must be strange for him, he thinks, that supposed God-given right to win disintegrating around him, leaving him behind in the dusty ruins of the Coliseum. He’s never really lost it, wherever he’s ended up, always striving for something greater and grander than himself.

Pablo, though—Pablo had any dreams of grandeur promptly beaten out of him in his first stint here.

Football, here, in this part of the city, isn’t about winning—it’s about surviving. It’s about seeing how many times you can fall on your own sword before it kills you—and no one really caring either way. It’s disenchanting for a while, reality stamping on a fairytale existence, but you get used to it. There’s no other choice.

*

Álvaro spends most of his days off with Pablo, usually not in the mood to do anything exciting except watch shitty telenovelas in his living-room until their brains leak out their ears. Pablo’s still not bored of all the attention, the shift from his lonely reality into something much brighter pleasantly enthralling, like the light spilling in through the window and smudging the lines from Álvaro’s face, making him look young again, the way he does when Pablo closes his eyes.

“Do you want to have dinner here tonight?” Pablo asks.

Álvaro makes a strange, grunt-like noise, halfway sunk into the garbage playing on the television. From the opposite side of the couch, Pablo stretches over to jab a finger into his side, just below his ribs. It’s cruel, yet effective.

“Hey,” Pablo says, “I’m talking to you.”

“That hurt,” Álvaro complains.

“No it didn’t.”

“Oh yeah,” Álvaro says, and then he’s on top of Pablo, acutely mindful of his knee, jabbing a finger into either of his sides. Pablo howls out. “Still not hurt?” he asks.

 “Fuck off,” Pablo grumps, shoving against his chest. “I hate you. Fuck off.”

“You love me,” Álvaro says. 

“Yeah, I—”

Pablo stops. Above him, Álvaro’s mouth twitches, threatening to breakout into a smile. Pablo wants to wipe it right off his face, but he also wants to lean up and kiss him, just for old times’ sake. In the end, he does neither, slowly wriggling his way out from underneath Álvaro, standing only to sway in the no man’s land between the couch and the door. Álvaro is straight up after him, grazing the back of his elbows with his fingertips, ready to keep him steady.

Álvaro insists on helping with dinner, although he spends more time just scrolling through his phone than actively helping with anything. It’s one of those times that Pablo’s convinced that they’ve got him watching him, making sure he sits down at the kitchen island in regular intervals, taking the weight off his knee. It doesn’t hurt that much anymore—not unless it gets stiff, then it’s excruciating to move, and he curses everyone from the ground up for his troubles. He can see Álvaro watching him from over his phone when he sits down again, oven shut, a hand wrapped tightly just above the curve of his knee.

“Is that bothering you?” Álvaro asks, finally setting his phone down.

“It’s fine,” he says, voice a little strained. “You’re bothering me more.”

Álvaro doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he knows when Pablo wants something dropped, so he does.

“Alright,” he says, hands raised in surrender.

They eat dinner together, which is nice, all things considered. They fall into long stretches of silence that bother Pablo more than they used to, but he can’t put his finger on why. Maybe because there’s so much that they could say but they’re choosing not to that bothers him. Open your goddamn mouth then, he thinks, but his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, unwilling to cooperate.

He stabs a fork through his salad in frustration.

“Geez,” Álvaro says. He’s looking at Pablo weirdly, and Pablo wills the world to end. “What did the lettuce ever do to you?”

Pablo’s halfway to telling Álvaro to fuck off again, but he stops himself, scared it might sound like he means it. He doesn’t. He wants Álvaro here, with him, and his chest lurches uncomfortably at the thought of Álvaro standing up and walking away.

“I gotta feed the cats,” he says.

In the kitchen he braces himself over the sink, drenching himself in the melodramatic feelings in his chest for a moment. This shouldn’t be happening to him again. It must be all those telenovelas, he thinks, nodding like he really believes it and reaches down to cup some water in his hands to splash into his face.

He stays like this until he feels the cats bumping their faces up against his legs, urging him to get a move on.

“Alright, alright,” he says, reaching down to give each of them a scratch behind the ear. He’s never really been that lonely with them around, even if they do serve as a constant reminder of a relationship that didn’t work. None of them ever seem to do, and Pablo’s long since settled on the conclusion that it’s him that’s the problem. “Dinner’s coming.”

“Are you talking to yourself?” Álvaro yells from the dining room.

“No!” Pablo yells back, defensive.

Once he’s put food out for the cats, he opens the door to find Álvaro just as he left him, plate pushed a little further away from him. Looking at him forces all the breath out of his chest like he’s been punched or winded, so he leans heavily against the doorframe, hand absentmindedly dropping to stretch out for his knee.

Álvaro looks up and catches him staring. 

“What?” he says. 

“Nothing,” Pablo says automatically. “I just—” 

“What?” Álvaro repeats. 

“My knee hurts,” he says, and it’s not strictly untrue.

*

They get their first win of the season against Elche; an ugly smash-and-grab performance that also gets Álvaro his first goal of the season. The spattering of Getafe fans around the stadium voice their approval, a little unsure looking, cautious as though they might still lose the three points after the final whistle has blown.

After the game, Pablo and the rest of Getafe’s injured armada—as he has so cleverly nicknamed them—make their way down to the dressing-room to celebrate. It’s a relief more than anything, especially for Pablo. Getafe’s wage structure isn’t designed to accommodate someone like him—nevermind Álvaro—and there’s a certain amount of guilt that comes with being injured, being able to do nothing. No one every says anything, but he feels like a burden they could really do without.

It’s all about survival, he remembers. The weak and injured get left behind.

Pablo’s relief is matched only by his teammates’ joy. The dressing-room is humming with it, the music cranked up loud by a raft of youngsters brought in on loan, silently hoping Getafe to be their springboard, and not their plank to walk. Pablo can sympathise.

“Congratulations,” Pablo says when he finds Álvaro. “But I think it might’ve came off the centre-back last.”

Álvaro expertly bypasses his teasing, standing from where he’s sat by his locker to envelope him in a hug. Pablo pats his back, cheek smushed into the curve of his shoulder. Shutting his eyes, Pablo lets himself enjoy the moment, the feeling of Álvaro’s chest pushing up against his as he breathes, body thrumming in victory. He’s always been a better winner than a better loser, and sometimes Pablo thinks maybe that’s why he lasted so much longer at Real Madrid than he ever did.

Longer, but not forever.

It’s an unsettling, almost perverse comfort, but a comfort all the same.

*

Pablo is nineteen when he first signs for Getafe, twenty-four when he leaves and thirty-three when he comes back.

It’s strange, he thinks, walking through the car park, how very little things have changed in those fourteen, now fifteen years. It’s strange, despite the undercurrent of hysteria and uncertainty that seems to define the club, how stuck in time it has become. It’s strange how Pablo can still wave at the same security guard as he shuffles down a side path, past the main training pitch, and sneak around the low stand of the Ciudad Deportiva.

Exhausted after more work with the club physio, he manages to climb five rows before he decides his view of Álvaro and Salva is adequate.

At the far end of the pitch, beyond which the training ground spills out into the real world, Salva is sweeping in free-kicks over training mannequins, Álvaro close by his side, talking in his ear. This has become quite the regular occurrence in the last couple of weeks, so much so that Pablo rarely bothers to wait on Álvaro in the car anymore, instead heading to the tiny stadium to sit and spectate until one of them sees fit to finish.

Salva’s a nice kid—and a true dye in the wool Getafe fan, complete with “PABLO SARABIA 8” and “SARABIA 10” jerseys and all. There’s even some rumours he was conceived thanks to one of those porno-esque adverts Getafe produced back in the day, even though the maths doesn’t really add up. (“You can laugh,” he tells Álvaro, “I never got my DVD of the hot lesbian extra-terrestrial zombies of Getafe when I signed.”) Still a little out of control of his limbs and temper, Pablo’s just about forgiven him for making him feel so goddamn old.

“When’s the last time anyone let you take a free-kick?” Pablo asks afterwards.

Salva is gone, and Álvaro is almost ready to leave. The coaching staff are still kicking around, but there’s a weird eeriness that itches at Pablo’s skin and tells him to get going.

“It’s a secret weapon,” Álvaro says, resolute.

Pablo hums, tucking his arms around himself. He’s sitting by his own locker, two spaces down from Álvaro, legs stretched out in front of him. The locker-room smells like a mix of too many different deodorants and sweat, and Pablo finds himself missing it much more than he ever thought was possible. To save himself from the ridicule, he keeps this to himself.

“Lunch?” Álvaro asks, shadow suddenly thrown over Pablo.

Pablo rolls his head against his locker, lips pursed, thinking. Álvaro rests a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re buying?”

Álvaro scoffs, lifting his hand to whack up the side of Pablo’s head.

“Unbelievable,” he says, and then, “Of course.”

*

They kiss for the first time in Pablo’s hotel bed, a couple of weeks after Álvaro turns seventeen.

They’re in Nigeria for the Under-17 World Cup, and they’ve just beaten Uruguay in the quarter-finals. Pablo knows he should be happy—and he is, completely, but there’s this weird, guilty feeling worming its way around in his stomach, making it difficult.

“Pablo?”

He opens his eyes, staring up at the stucco ceiling, trying to remember where he is for a moment. His legs hurt after a full match, extra-time and penalties, he’s faintly aware. He must’ve dozed off while everyone else went off to celebrate.

Álvaro says his name again from the doorway.

“Yeah,” Pablo says, voice rough.

“Albert said you weren’t feeling well,” Álvaro says, and Pablo flushes with the guilt of a lie. He can hear him getting closer. “Do you want me to get someone?”

“I’m fine.”

Álvaro is quiet for a moment, and his footsteps have stopped.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with your penalty, does it?”

Pablo stays silent and closes his eyes again as Álvaro lays down beside him. Álvaro shifts around a little at first, trying to get comfortable or keep his distance, Pablo isn’t sure, but he does feel his body naturally fall towards the dip in the middle of the mattress. He doesn’t even try to keep himself away.

“Why would it?” Pablo asks. “We won. It didn’t matter.”

“I know, but—” Álvaro sighs.

“What?”

Álvaro’s quiet again, and Pablo feels shitty for shooting him down when he’s just trying to be nice. He needs some time to sulk, though, to feel sorry for himself. No one else seems willing to—it’s all in the past for them, and Pablo’s stuck living in it. The penalty plays over and over in his head, every fraction of his movement cut down and analysed. He was doomed to fail, he thinks, legs heavy and that scratchy ache tearing up his throat.

Luckily his jersey hangs off him just enough to drown himself in completely.

“Nigeria won, did you see?” Álvaro pipes up suddenly. He doesn’t pause for an answer. “Think we’ll beat them?”

Pablo shrugs, feeling a line of heat up his arm from Álvaro’s body.

“How should I know?”

Finally, Pablo turns to Álvaro, but his head is turned away, and Pablo can only see the curve of his ear and the line of his jaw, smooth as always.

"I wish I would’ve played,” Álvaro says, “then you wouldn’t have had to have taken one. I would’ve volunteered.”

Something clenches tight in Pablo’s chest, memories of a dream about a knight in shining armour he might’ve had once or twice coming flooding back to him. He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come out. Álvaro’s still talking anyway, uncharacteristically fast, like he has to say it now or not at all.

“Not that I don’t think you’re good at taking pens, I just know that you’d rather not,” Álvaro rambles, and Pablo chews on his lip, wondering if everyone else can tell he’s such a coward, or if it’s just an Álvaro thing. “It’s just luck at the end of the day, anyway. It’s a shit way to decide a game—not that I’m complaining that we won, but—”

“Álvaro,” Pablo interrupts gently.

Álvaro turns his face to the ceiling, eyes closed, and Pablo can’t look away from the line of his profile, the gentle flutter of his eyelashes. They’ve only known each other a year, but there is something intrinsically familiar about Álvaro, like Pablo has been waiting on him his entire life. He swallows, suddenly feeling cold, yearning for the warm touch of Álvaro’s skin again, the distance between them too great for him to handle.

"Álvaro," he repeats, but Álvaro still doesn’t look at him.

Pablo shifts onto his side, mind a mess of everything he could say, but never being able to settle on anything sufficient. Instead, he nudges his face up to Álvaro’s and presses his lips blindly to his cheek, then again, gentle, catching the corner of his mouth. He freezes, fear unleashing itself through his body like a restless, relentless beast, welding him into place.

He becomes aware of a hand on the back of his head like one may come out of a coma, all muted and slow, the pressure moving him over an inch, lining them up for Pablo to finally kiss Álvaro properly.

Beneath him, Álvaro’s mouth falls open, exhaling shakily, the warmth of his breath catching on the damp inner edge of Pablo’s lips. After that, he turns into Pablo a little more, fumbling and fitting them together, growing bolder with every moment that passes. In turn, Pablo twists as close to him as he can, the two of them curling together in the centre of the mattress, entwined at every inch, feeling a way that is both familiar and new.

Wedging a knee between Álvaro’s thighs, Pablo pushes a hand through his hair.

“I think we’ll win,” Pablo whispers in the nearly-dark, and Álvaro pulls him closer still.

*

They hadn’t, Pablo remembers sadly, surfacing from a dream.

He’s awake for a long time, going over the memory in his head. He stares up at the ceiling until his body feels like it’s being melted into his sheets, and it’s only then, synthetically thoughtless and blameless, that he finally falls asleep.

*

They go to the Camp Nou in early October, and it goes as well as to be expected.

Afterwards, he gets this strange feeling that Álvaro wants to scream at him, hit him, elicit something more from him, some loss of composure, some recognition of what has just happened. He probably doesn’t care if it’s real or not; he just needs him to say it, to feel the same way that he does, to show that there is some of _his_ Pablo left beneath a seemingly unflappable calm. He needs him tender and wounded and vulnerable so that the aching inside is not only for himself.

“What do you want me to say?” Pablo asks.

They’re in Álvaro’s car, just sitting. The carpark around them is emptying. Out of the corner of his eye, Pablo sees Salva trudge into the arms of his girlfriend. He’d been sent off in a fit of frustration, and Pablo thinks maybe it’s time he suggested he and Álvaro stop spending so much time together after practice.

Álvaro doesn’t look at him.

“You used to know exactly what to say,” he says.

I did, Pablo thinks, shutting his eyes and leaning his temple against the window. He doesn’t remember when he stopped.

*

Sergio visits a couple of weeks later. He brings Marco and Isabel, and they bring a belated get well soon card (handmade) and toys for the cats.

“You didn’t have to,” Pablo says once they’ve let them loose in the garden.

“They insisted.”

Pablo stares out of the sliding glass doors to where Marco has positioned Isabel in front of the tiny set of goals he’s got out there. He smiles, fond. He remembers both of them being born, back in Seville, and picking out little baby grows as a present, frantically seeking advice from his mother on the other end of the phone. He remembers Sergio’s delight at the news, and his subsequent fear, the world suddenly arranging itself into a maze of horrors around him.

It is fear, Sergio will often say, that underpins the love of a child, and it never really goes away, no matter how old they get, or how many you have. You’re always terrified, he says. You just have to learn to live with it.

“I think I might get another cat,” Pablo blurts.

“Three cats,” Sergio muses. “That’s the start of a slippery slope, brother.”

“They could help me pick one,” Pablo says, gesturing towards the garden. “There’s a rescue centre not far from here.”

“Aren’t you being a little rash?” Sergio asks. “I get that you’re lonely, but—”

“I’m not lonely,” Pablo says quickly, frowning. “Why would you even say that? I’ll have none of it, thanks.”

“When’s the last time you went on a date? Do you want me to set you up with one of Tatyana’s friends? Patricia, remember her? The one that was at my wedding. She’s just divorced and—"

“Will you give it a rest!” Pablo’s voice raises to something that resembles a shout, but not quite. Regardless, Sergio stares at him like a second head has begun to grow from his neck. “I’m fine, alright? If I want something like that, I’ll let you know, but right now—I’m good on my own.” He pauses. “I need to focus on myself.”

He’s been doing that for years, but Sergio says nothing about it. Knows better.

*

Between crashing out of the Copa del Rey and Christmas, they host Real Madrid at the Coliseum.

Álvaro gets a bit weird and distant the week leading up to it, although he insists that nothing is wrong. Pablo gets it—gets that he wants to prove a point; he used to want to prove them all wrong, too, but he grew tired of it after a while, grew weary. There’s no winning, not really. It’s not like they let him go because he wasn’t good enough, anyway—no, they’d figured that out later, long after he’d done and jumped before he’d been pushed.

It’s raining, water swamping up the grass. It must be torture to run through, Pablo thinks, safely tucked away up in the stand, wind nipping at his face. Only a month or two now, and that’ll be him on that pitch, sliding about, grasping for the jerseys of players he’s not quick enough to keep up with anymore. Thankfully he’s managed to follow the path of every aging winger; shifted from the side to the middle to deep-lying playmaker—a fancy term for someone that just doesn’t have the legs for it anymore.

Time, Pablo notes as he watches Real Madrid break up the field, seems to have skipped Dani by. He doesn’t even seem to be slowed down by the weight of his own legend. He’s happy for him—Dani with all his La Ligas and Copas and Champions and Supercopas—he really is, it would just be nice, just this one time, if this could be his. This game, these three points. This alone.

It is the singular most bitter pleasure in the world, Pablo thinks, watching someone you love play for the club you love while you’re stuck on the outside looking in. And Pablo is not bitter, not in the slightest, but that does not necessarily mean he never was.

They draw in the end. By their exceptionally low standards, it’s a brilliant result. When Pablo makes his way down to the tunnel, Dani is waiting for him, Álvaro’s jersey bunched tight in his fist. He’s soaking, shivering, but he waits.

“Surprised they haven’t put you out to pasture yet,” Pablo says by way of greeting, touching the curve of Dani’s shoulder before pulling him in for a hug.

Dani jostles him a bit.

“Still looking like a moderately powerful pokémon?” he banters, reaching up to ruffle his hair. “How’ve you been?” he asks, voice dropping. “I saw—”

“Y’know, hanging in there. I’m off to Barcelona to see a specialist over the break,” Pablo tells him quietly, crowding them further to the side, letting the rest of his teammates pass.

He feels a hand touch his waist then, and turns around to see Antonio Zarzana, all graceful and tight-lipped, standing before him. He’s not long made a big money move to the capital from Sevilla, and Pablo would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little excited to see what the kid—because he’ll always be a kid to Pablo—could do. He gives him a quick kiss on the cheek and reminds him he owes him a game of padel when his knee gets better.

“Nice guy,” Dani notes when Antonio disappears again.

“He barely said a word when he started training with us,” Pablo remembers. He laughs. “And then Borja got a hold of him.”

Something flickers across Dani’s face—confusion, maybe. He doesn’t know who Pablo is talking about. The disconnect is jarring, and the smile on Pablo’s face falters. It doesn’t come back until Pablo forces one onto his face, stealing Anokye’s place by Álvaro’s side while he’s talking to the press, bringing a hand down heavy on his knee. He’s played well, and he knows it; Pablo adjudges it to be safe to talk to him.

“Dani said we should meet up,” Álvaro says. Dani’s jersey sits in his lap, white streaked in grass and mud. “Just the three of us. Like old times.”

“Sounds good,” Pablo says, clinging onto Álvaro’s knee for dear life.

*

He gets another cat and calls him Merlin.

He sends a picture to Sergio captioned “mi gordito” with heart emojis and all.

He doesn’t get a reply.

*

They’re sitting with their backs to the couch on Pablo’s living-room floor, shoulders nudged tightly together. A half-built cat tree stands before them, and Pablo is pleasantly surprised by their progress despite Álvaro’s insistence that he knows better than the instructions manual. They’ve fallen into a content silence, so Pablo entertains himself by stretching his legs out as far as he can, slowly shuffling down to match the reach of Álvaro’s. Álvaro catches on eventually, raising an eyebrow at him curiously until he ends up almost vertical, staring up at the underside of Álvaro’s chin. He wonders, for a brief moment, if he’s ever seen Álvaro at this angle before, or if he’s already seen him in every way there is to see.

“I was talking with my agent yesterday,” Álvaro says out of the blue.

Pablo hums to show that he’s listening. He’s thinking about that time Álvaro wouldn’t stop sliding his hand down the inside of his thigh as he tried to work on a university assignment. It doesn’t matter, he remembers Álvaro mumbling in his ear, body hanging over the back of his chair. It does matter, he remembers thinking, but relenting, voice caught in his throat as Álvaro folded himself up between his knees and sucked him off.

When Álvaro doesn't say anything more, Pablo asks, “About what?”

Pablo hears the sound of Álvaro sucking on his teeth, followed by a gentle, “About maybe signing an extension.”

Pushed up on his elbows, Pablo stares at the side of his face.

“Not like, officially or anything,” Álvaro says, and Pablo isn’t at all surprised. For all the thinking that he does, his heart still rules his head. Sometimes Pablo wonders where he would’ve ended up if he’d been a little more similar. “I haven’t spoken to the club. They might not be able to, y’know, afford to give me another year.”

“Oh,” Pablo says. “Is that what you really want?”

“I like it here,” Álvaro says. He brings his hand to lazily graze over the curve of his knee, skimming over Pablo’s as he does. He’s watching Reina sniff around the cat tree, curious, her front paws up on the first ledge. He tries calling her over, but she ignores him. “I mean, I’m back home, kinda, and I don’t—I don’t know. I just don’t really feel like moving again. I want this to be it, but not yet.”

Pablo nods.

“What about you?” Álvaro asks.

“I don’t know,” Pablo mumbles, and it’s true. His last knee scan didn’t exactly show what he wanted to see. “I think it might be curtains after this.”

“Don’t say that,” Álvaro says sharply. “We still haven’t played together yet.”

Pablo chokes a little on a laugh, says, “I don’t think the universe wants us to play together. Probably wouldn’t be very fair on everybody else, anyway.”

“We were good,” Álvaro says, perhaps more wistful than he intends. “We would’ve been great.”

In that moment, Pablo is reminded that he—the both of them, will indefinitely be defined, first and foremost, by what they did not do. Neither of them turned out the way everyone expected them to, and this at least, Pablo thinks, is something they managed to do together. One day he hopes Álvaro will be as much at peace with it as he is.

“Yeah,” Pablo agrees. “We would’ve.”

Pablo squirms against the couch then, pushing his face into Álvaro’s shoulder and sighing deeply.

“At least we got this,” he says, and kisses Álvaro through his t-shirt, spurred by a jolt of bravery.

Álvaro must feel it, because he’s shoving at him weakly, and Pablo hooks his fingers into his shoulders, pushing him back down against the floor. Pablo knows Álvaro could beat him for power and strength, but he goes down easily, lets Pablo climb on top of him and sit back on his thighs. You’re too old for this, a tiny voice in the back of Pablo’s head says as his fingers glide over Álvaro’s stomach, teasing to catch beneath the fabric and expose his skin to the world.

_You’re too old for this but fuck it._

Beneath him, just like he’s been plenty of times before, Álvaro trembles slightly, hands coming to rest on the tops of Pablo’s thighs. He moves his thumbs in slow, easy circles, and Pablo thinks he could stay like this forever.

Álvaro swallows audibly. “Are you gonna—”

“Yeah,” he whispers quickly. “Yeah, I’m—”

The words drift off like smoke from his mouth. He leans in closer, body tilting forward, and suddenly Álvaro eclipses everything, the only thing Pablo can see. His eyes skip between those eyelashes, fanning out against his cheeks, and the damp inside edge of his bottom lip barely visible by the way he’s gone all slack-mouthed and soft in anticipation. There are more lines on Álvaro’s face than he remembers, hovering painful close now, and then—

—he whimpers, a pain shooting through his knee. _No, no, no_ , he thinks, reaching down to hold it tight, his face falling into the curve of Álvaro’s neck.

“Hey,” Álvaro says gently, sliding his hands over Pablo’s back, “what’s wrong?”

It hurts, but not really. Like a phantom pain. A warning. He breathes heavy, air whistling out his nose as he picks himself back up. His body feels warm, like he’s on the verge of a fever, and Álvaro is looking at him with those big eyes, silently asking if he’s alright.

“I’m fine,” he rasps, puffing out his cheeks.

“Are you sure you’re—”

He kisses Álvaro, mouth closed and no idea what do with it once he’s there. He feels like a teenager again, all lovesick and stupid and scared this was all he was ever going to get. It was, in the end, but Pablo’s over the foolish heartbreak of it all, and he doesn’t care anymore. Relief bursts in his chest and his lips are parting in a surprised huff when he feels Álvaro grab blindly at his ass, trying to pull him closer.

Pablo pulls away first.

Álvaro smacks his lips together and rolls his head to the side. When he laughs, Pablo can feel it through his abdomen.

“Your cats are watching us.”

Pablo looks to the side, finding all three of them watching them. He muffles his own laughter in the curve of Álvaro’s shoulder.

*

“ _Morata! Morata! Morata!_ ” the fans chant as Álvaro walks off the pitch, almost bashful, hand raised in acknowledgement. 

“ _Morata! Morata! Morata!_ ” Pablo joins in, getting to his feet.

*

Pablo starts training outside by himself at the end of January.

He stops for a break, hands on his hips, as the rest of the boys are playing an increasingly enthusiastic game of head tennis. Álvaro has found himself a partner in Maicol, a bullish little midfielder recently bought from Uruguay. He wants to join in, run into the chaos while the coach’s back is turned, but he stays rooted to the spot, a little too tired to try. He skooshes water into his mouth and spits it back out, throwing the bottle away to the side.

When the ball trundles away, Álvaro catches his eye. He waves, and Pablo waves back, biting down a stupid smile.

“Pablo,” the coach calls, “come on.”

Taking a deep breath, Pablo fixes the heart monitor under his t-shirt and starts to jog.

*

“Pablo?”

It’s dark when Pablo opens his eyes, and he’s so very warm. He hums, snuggling a little more into the pillow, body so blissfully content in a cloud of comfort. It’s only as he’s wriggling around, searching for that optimum comfort, that he realises there’s a heavy, warm weight at his waist. A hand, he thinks, dazed.

It’s Álvaro’s hand and Álvaro’s voice.

“Pablo?”

The hand on his arm begins to shake him, and Pablo contemplates pretending to be asleep, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his cheeks further into the pillow—but he doesn’t, can’t. Álvaro’s voice is too urgent yet gentle to ignore, almost lost in the air between them by his ear. It’s a little jarring, too, and for one fleeting second before Pablo rolls slowly over onto his back, he feels eighteen again, awakening to Álvaro’s hands on him in the dead of night.

He’s not eighteen, though—hasn’t been for quite a while—and this is no Castilla away trip.

“Pablito?”

“Álvaro?” he whispers. “What is it?”

“I—” Álvaro ducks his head to hide away. From the way he’s sitting, Pablo can only make out the top half of him, curving away from him, a dim light carving out the hunch of his shoulders. His silhouette is a slab of darkness that his eyes haven’t adjusted to yet.

Pablo yawns.

“What time is it?” he asks, pushing himself up onto his elbows. He can feel Álvaro’s hand still close by his side. “Is everything alright?”

Pablo blinks, trying to wake himself up so he can focus on Álvaro better. There’s something off about him, and Pablo can’t remember why he’d be so upset. He’d been perfectly fine before they’d gone to sleep, touching him up before the window of their hotel room, whispering filth in his ear. Pablo shivers at the thought, suddenly excited to get home again.

“I’m sorry,” Álvaro blurts. “I’m sorry I was such an asshole before, I—I was just scared.”

It all comes out in such a rush, like a damn has burst, and then he’s twisting around and toppling forward, his forehead butting up against Pablo’s shoulder. It’s awkward, Pablo trapped flat against the mattress, but he slides his hands down his back anyway, following the ridges of his spine, down and back up, before finally settling them on Álvaro’s shoulders. Álvaro’s breath rattles something terrible over his skin, but he settles into the embrace, body going boneless.

“It’s—” Pablo begins, but unsure if he can tack on “fine” through gritted teeth. It is, but it hasn’t always been, and Pablo won’t deny his heart does a dive in his chest at the memory.

“You loved me so much,” Álvaro says, like Pablo needs the reminder. He goes rigid beneath Álvaro, wishing he could somehow slam his hands against his ears and scream without it scaring Álvaro off. Whatever Álvaro has to say, he doesn’t want to hear it. “And I—I didn’t.”

Pablo feels himself deflate.

“I know,” he says, because it’s true. He always knew.

“And then you left.”

Pablo tightens his grip on Álvaro’s shoulders, leaving nasty, crescent-shaped indents where the catches of his nails dig in. He feels Álvaro grimace against his skin, the twist of his face certain, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he deserves this, just a little bit.

“Don’t,” he whispers, stern, and for the first time in his life, Álvaro doesn’t.

*

After nine years of fist-pumping and badge-kissing at Sevilla—most of it admittedly more so born out of adrenaline than sentiment—it’s not a surprise that he gets more than his fair share of stick from the adoring Benito Villamarin crowd as he warms up. There’s a few of them standing down by the corner, dodging between the cones and ducking out of the way of insults, but more interested in the game than anything.

It’s getting tight at the bottom of the league. Depending on the results here and elsewhere, they could finish the weekend anywhere between eleventh and nineteenth on the table. Pablo tries not to think about it too much, taking each game as it comes, but it’s hard when you’ve been there before.

There’s no running away from it this time, though. Not really. This time it ends, or it doesn’t.

Near the start of the second half, Getafe get a freekick twenty-five yards out. Anokye and Juanito stand over the ball. If Anokye takes it, he’ll blast it goalward, Pablo thinks, and if Juanito takes it, he’ll take it short. If it were him, he thinks, he’d whip it in with pace, hoping for the best. It’s become a bit of a mantra over the years.

In the end, it’s Anokye that hits it, smashing it into the wall so hard it ricochets around like a pinball between blue and green jerseys. It comes to a rest, finally, as though in slow motion, at the feet of Nabil, a gangly young centre-back and the absolute last person you’d want the ball to fall to in the box. With a touch more skill than anyone thought possible, he steps over the ball, turns, and plays the ball to Álvaro. Off balance and unready, Álvaro takes a swing at it, and by the time the ball is slamming into the roof of the net, he’s on his backside, unsure as to what’s going on.

Pablo knows exactly what’s going on, and he makes sure the Betis fans by his side know too.

When he turns around, grabbed by the shoulder by an anonymous set of hands, Álvaro is running towards them. Throwing his arms up, he makes a half-hearted attempt at jumping into Álvaro’s arms, but he’s not the only one, and they all end up in one mad, screaming pile by the corner flag.

Twenty minutes later, on a bright, late-February afternoon, Pablo makes his return from injury. He stands on the side-line, giddy as a child, watching Álvaro run towards him, not wanting to make him wait any longer. He gets a kiss on both cheeks and a slap on his ass for good luck.

He doesn’t hear the boos.

*

“I hated it,” Álvaro says, out of the blue.

Pablo looks up from where he’s splayed out on his living-room floor, fingers scratching over Julieta’s belly. Álvaro is fidgeting where he’s sat on the edge of the couch, pulling at the cuffs of his hoodie. He looks a second away from crawling right out of his skin.

“Hated what?” Pablo asks.

“Istanbul—well, playing in Istanbul, with Galatasaray. I was shit and I couldn’t score and I didn’t want to go to training.”

The last part falls out so softly from Álvaro’s mouth that Pablo’s not all that convinced he even meant to say it. His head lowers then, hiding his face, and Pablo moves to him automatically, bones clicking, sitting beside him on the couch. He slides a hand over his thigh, curling his fingers around the hem of his shorts and doesn’t say a word. He rests himself up against Álvaro, hollow of his cheek on the curve of his shoulder.

“It’s not just there,” he continues. “Monaco was the same. And Benfica. Ajax.” Álvaro turns to look at him, and Pablo lifts his head off his shoulder. “Nothing ever worked out.”

Pablo stares up at him, stares into his eyes, and he wonders, wildly, if he’s been wrong all this time—wonders if it was Álvaro, not him, that got the short end of the stick. He’s had, in comparison, a fairly ordinary career, but he’s always been happy—and maybe that’s the most important thing, after all. More than money and winning and titles. Coming from Real Madrid, the attitude had seemed almost weak-willed and ignoble, a sign of the cowardice that had haunted him in his teens.

But not everyone can be successful, he remembers realising one day, and only then could he carve out a proper career for himself.

“But you’re happy here,” Pablo says, sure then trailing off, tentative, because what else doesn’t he know?

Álvaro reaches for him, thumbing over a patch where his beard disappears into nothing. “I’m happy here,” he assures him.

Pablo shuts his eyes, turning his cheek into Álvaro’s palm.

“Good,” he breathes.

*

They’re already four-nil down at the Bernabéu when he’s thrown on for Salva, mostly because he’s on a yellow card and they’ve got games they’ve actually got a chance in hell of winning coming up. It’s always strange going back, going home. Álvaro gets a spattering of applause when they read out the line-ups and substitutes before the game, but there’s nothing for him, his name smudged from the memories of the spectators, like he was never even there, and his Real Madrid debut might’ve been a dream he once had.

It’s been sixteen years, he reminds himself, and not for a minute did he stop dreaming of going back.

*

They lose their penultimate game of the season.

It’s all or nothing, and even that might not be enough.

*

The morning of his thirty-fifth birthday, Pablo sits out on his back porch and watches the sun rise over Madrid. He’s been awake for a few hours now, thrown from his sleep by a nightmare he can’t quite remember, something that felt like falling. He tries to get back to sleep for ten, twenty minutes before stumbling through his house, almost tripping on a cat, and settling himself outside. Tucking his feet beneath himself, he sinks into the folds of a hoodie of Álvaro’s that he’s managed to acquire sometime over the course of the season and absentmindedly chews on the strings.

He’s been thinking a lot about the future lately. The club, understandably, wants to know where he stands, especially with the possibility of relegation looming so close on the horizon. Álvaro, too, is getting restless, wanting to know where he’s going to be in a few months’ time, even though he isn’t entirely sure himself.

The truth is—well, he’s not sure. He doesn’t really want to stop, not anymore, but he doesn’t really want to move on either, and that might not be feasible. After such a bad injury, clubs aren’t exactly talking his agent’s ear off. Pablo huffs, resting his cheek on a clenched fist.

He’s halfway done weighing up the pros and cons of trying his hand in India when Álvaro comes sleepily lurching out onto the porch and ducks down to press a kiss to his temple.

“Happy birthday,” he mumbles. “How long have you been up?”

Pablo tilts his head to look at Álvaro slouching low beside him, legs stretched out and crossed at his ankles. His eyes have fluttered shut against the early morning light, and he almost looks like he could be sleeping if not for the subtle way his fingers drum against his stomach. He’s shirtless, too, and Pablo can see a red, mouth-shaped mark along the top of his shoulder. Pablo feels a heat flare in his stomach. His knee pangs with another phantom pain.

“Not sure,” Pablo says.

“You’re going to your mum’s today, right?” Álvaro asks.

“Sister’s,” Pablo says. He stares out at his garden. Merlin’s swaggering around like he owns the place. “You could come, but—”

“I think you see enough of me.” Álvaro is smiling when he speaks, eyes open. He reaches over and grazes his fingers up and down Pablo’s arm. “Is that mine?” he asks suddenly, pinching at the fabric of his hoodie.

“Maybe.”

Álvaro shakes his head, amused. It persists for a moment, maybe more, and then a familiar look of worry crosses his features. He doesn’t turn away in time for Pablo not to notice.

“Do you think—” he starts, and then cuts himself off abruptly. Pablo sits up straighter, body tilting towards Álvaro. He wants to prompt him for more, but he knows there’s no use in it. Álvaro, though, continues on his own accord. “Do you think we’ll do it? Do you think we’ll stay up?”

“I—” Pablo stops, thinks. “I have no idea.”

*

For the first time in a long time, Pablo wakes up with his stomach knotted with nerves.

He stares at the ceiling above his bed for a moment, just letting the weight of the day sit heavy on his chest. He tries not to think about the consequences too much, about what might happen if the club goes down, but it’s hard, very hard. It’s not like last time, when he was young and had a relegation clause in his contract, free to run off to Sevilla without so much as a look back over his shoulder. The honourable thing, he knows now, would’ve been to stay—and maybe, if he could go back, he would. Maybe he’d do the same thing. Pablo’s still not sure how much of his pride he can stomach.

On the bus to the stadium, he sits beside Álvaro—not that he’s much company, listening to music and staring intently into space. The only time he takes his earphones out is when he’s climbing over Pablo’s lap to get a better look at the fans crowding the bus, singing and dancing and getting lost in a cloud of blue smoke. From somewhere behind them, they hear Salva’s triumphant, “Who said Getafe doesn’t have fans?” and Pablo laughs, shrill, staring at the side of Álvaro’s face in front of his own.

He could give him a quick kiss, he thinks, the fizz of tension in his stomach swelling to a boil.

Through his closed eyes, the light of the late May morning is muted and magnificent all at once, like the gleaming grandeur of the capital he’d once known so well has finally spilled far enough, engulfing them, leading them from the darkness and into the light. Pablo tilts his head against the window, eyes fluttering open, eyelashes still a film over his vision. He sees the light.

*

They both start.

Pablo’s not entirely surprised—although that might just be because he’s up to his eyeballs on painkillers to play, and all of his emotions feel subdued and distant, like someone else is telling him to feel nervous, feel sick, feel hopeful. He floats around like a ghost, surveying the pitch as he warms up. Around them, the stadium is already fuller than usual, and Pablo wonders if they’re subconsciously attracted to the morbid and macabre, or if they’re just so desperate to feel something that this—this uncertainty, this looming doom, will do.

The Coliseum is shaking by the time kick-off comes, threatening to cave sooner than Pablo’s chest. Pablo’s almost distracted by the noise, and the eerie way it hushes again, news of a Sporting goal filtering through on tiny, hand-held radios. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the boys on the bench huddling around Jorge, the back-up keeper. Ever so often he shakes his head, holding up taped fingers to communicate the scores elsewhere from across the pitch.

At half-time, things aren’t going their way.

Beside Pablo, Álvaro sits, tense, a missed opportunity replaying in his mind. His legs jerk, trying again, but he only catches a stray water bottle, and nobody says anything when it spills across the floor.

Pablo only lasts another fifteen minutes into the second half by the time he needs to come off, the game passing him by. He thumps a fist on the ground as he sits, scratching up the side of his hand as he does. He whimpers, cursing ever deity. Juanito claps a hand on the back of his neck, but there’s a tremble running through him, nervous, and he pulls it away again as though burned by Pablo’s skin. Pablo thinks he hears him say sorry.

Álvaro joins him on the bench ten minutes later, but not before kicking some cones out of his path and grabbing a towel to hide his face behind. Pablo leans forward, looking down the line of players at him. One of the coaches is crouching before him, trying to get him to calm down, and Pablo’s mouth twitches, wanting to tell him to leave him, that he’ll get over it eventually once he’s had a good scream or cry about it.

He doesn’t get a chance to, though, because there’s a collective intake of breath around the entire stadium that sucks Pablo from the bench and out into the dugout, stumbling as he goes, and he just about manages to see Salva drag the ball back and nestle it into the top corner of the net.

Pandemonium ensues.

Unsure as to what to do with himself, body shocked into a happy delirium, Pablo grabs the first person he finds, who just so happens to be the assistant manager, and half picks him up and swings him around. When he stops, facing the bench again, Álvaro is there, looking so happy it looks like his cheeks are streaked with tears. Jumping towards each other, they sort of mistime it, and the force of his chest hitting Álvaro’s drives the breath straight out of him.

“Come on!” Álvaro screams in his ear, and it still rings around in his head when they’ve bundled themselves back onto the bench.

The game stretches on forever, an unending spiral of panic and missed chances. By the time the final whistle goes, Pablo feels so tense he thinks he might snap. There’s still five minutes left to go in Huesca’s game. If it stays like it is, Real Sociedad leading two-one, with Sporting beating Depor and Granada losing at Barcelona, they’ll be safe.

They’ll be safe, Pablo thinks, almost giddy, and reaches down to grab Álvaro’s hand.

They’re all folded up together on the bench, limbs pressed to limbs, Nabil’s chin hooked over Pablo’s shoulder. Somewhere behind him, he hears muttered prayers and swearing, and the stadium has fallen into an unnerving silence.

“You’re crushing my hand,” Álvaro whispers in his ear, and Pablo looks down at his own white-knuckled hand, quivering with the strain of holding on so tightly. “Don’t let go.”

Pablo wouldn’t think of it.

*

Álvaro decides to climb onto the massage table in the middle of the dressing-room when they all come bouncing in, moving in one big lateral movement. He flashes Pablo a gleeful smile as he smacks the ceiling along with the beat of the song blaring from the speakers, encouraging Salva up onto the table as well.

Pablo, naturally, prickles with concern for their safety, pushes himself from the wall he’s slumped himself against and bodily drags Álvaro to the ground again, arm hooked steadily around his waist. Fussing just a little, Álvaro almost topples backwards, skidding on the champagne-slick floor beneath his studs. Not much of a support, Pablo stumbles too, and it’s only Jorge that stops them both from landing on their asses.

Caught in that weird post-panic of an almost-fall, Pablo barely registers Álvaro grab his hand and say, “Come on,” his voice the only one Pablo could pick out in a crowded room.

Pablo goes.

He’s not sure where they’re going, but he follows, blindly, letting himself be pulled along despite the ache working its way up his arm. His whole body feels all sorts of sore, from his head to his thighs to his feet, but his adrenaline tempers it down to something somewhat tolerable, buzzing through his body like a powerline. He can’t remember feeling this good, this childlike, memories flooding through him, carrying him along like he’s floating. Squeezing Álvaro’s hand as hard as he can, he thinks about taking the lead and running faster, running until he’s so far along, so old, he’ll be young again.

Álvaro stops before he can think about it too much, pulling him over to an unmarked door. He pulls on the handle, but it doesn’t budge. Not stopping to be embarrassed, even though Pablo knows he totally is, he yanks him further down the hall they’ve just turned down and tries again. This time, when Álvaro pushes down on the handle, the weight of his shoulder behind it, they fall into the darkness of a tiny room.

Feet tripping over something in the dark, Pablo places a hand on the centre of Álvaro’s chest and pushes him up against the wall.

Everything’s louder in the dark, Pablo thinks, Álvaro’s breathing blaring in his ears and ghosting across his face, coming out heavy and quick. When he inhales, his chest expanding, Pablo feels it, lungs going in sync when he remembers how to breathe again. He nudges forward, hand moving flighty by his side, first stopping to tangle in the fabric of Álvaro’s jersey, then bracing against the wall by his head, keeping him from falling right into him. He feels Álvaro’s nose nudge against his cheek.

“We did it,” Álvaro says, and Pablo can almost feel the dampness of his breath on his skin when he speaks. Suddenly, there’s a hand in his hair, cradling the back of his skull. “We actually fucking did it.”

Álvaro kisses him then, and there’s a screaming rush in Pablo’s ears—everything he’s ever wanted, or something close to it, is right here. Not just Álvaro, but Álvaro as his teammate, Álvaro as his teammate that he can share something—anything with. It’s the way it should’ve—no, could’ve been, the way he’s always dreamt of it being. He kisses him back like he’s been wanting and waiting for nothing else.

Álvaro pulls away first, breathing sharp against Pablo’s cheek and petting his hair down clumsily. He smears his lips down the side of his face, stopping by the edge of his jaw, and Pablo feels his smile against his skin. He closes his eyes, tipping his head against Álvaro’s. He sucks in a breath of the humid air between them and sighs, letting his hand slip from the wall and drop to Álvaro’s shoulder. The muscle beneath his hand spasms and Pablo laughs, all happy and light and drunk off the taste of him.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, “we did.”

*

> **Official: Getafe duo Morata and Sarabia sign contract extensions**
> 
> Former Spanish international striker Álvaro Morata has penned a one-year extension alongside fellow Real Madrid academy graduate Pablo Sarabia, who re-joined the capital club in 2025 after a nine-year stint at Sevilla.
> 
> Morata, 34, and Sarabia, 35, both played their part as Getafe once again narrowly avoided relegation on the final day of the season. Morata, brought in on a free transfer from Turkish giants Galatasaray last summer, featured 31 times for El Geta, scoring 11 goals. Sarabia missed most of the season as a result of a serious knee injury sustained in preseason, but returned to help his team—in which he is now the 7th most-capped player—in the crucial relegation run-in.
> 
> Speaking about his renewal, Sarabia said:
> 
> _“I’m eternally grateful for the support I’ve received this season from the Club, the fans, the coaching staff and my teammates. I’m delighted to have signed a new deal and I hope to repay the faith everyone has shown in me with good performances on the pitch in the coming season.”_
> 
> Getafe will also be looking to tie down striker Salvador Aquino on a long-term deal. The youngster, currently representing Spain at the UEFA Euro Under-19 Championships in Portugal, scored 14 goals last season, and has been attracting interest from fellow La Liga side Valencia as well as numerous clubs in England and Italy.
> 
> Morata was full of praise for his young strike partner:
> 
> _“He’s got all the attributes to become a top player. I try to help him on and off the pitch as much as I can. He’s still very young, however, and he should be allowed to make mistakes and learn from them. Right now, I believe Getafe is the best place for him.”_
> 
> On his own new deal, he said:
> 
> _“I’m at a good place in my life right now, both professionally and personally. I’ve never been more happy.”_

_*_

**Author's Note:**

> congrats on making it to the end ahahaa. thank you very much for reading!  
> i'm not sure what notes would suffice but the most important thing is probably [PABLO IS A CAT DAD](http://benyedders.tumblr.com/post/174504409075/pablo-sarabia-is-a-cat-dad-x) although unfortunately he's a snake that never posts pictures of them.


End file.
